The Incredible Truce of Mary Bryant
by Sarah Cartwright
Summary: What if Ralph Clarke had chosen a different path the day he finally caught up with Mary Bryant? I know this is the wrong film, but I can't figure out how to enter in "The Incredible Journey of Mary Bryant".
1. The Cause

Disclaimer: All rights belong to their respective owners.

Chapter One:  
The Cause

_She must die, else she'll betray more men.  
-Shakespeare's "Othello"_

Marine 2nd Lieutenant Ralph Clarke watched carefully as Mary Bryant sat at the water's edge, her baby, Emanuel, in her bonnet, and four-year-old Charlotte sitting beside her. He had watched them sleep the night before and had followed them to this place, wondering and waiting. _What would Mary do now that she was alone?_

Charlotte looked tired and paler than when Clarke had last seen her in New South Wales. In his half-mad state, this small observation seemed as prevalent to his ever-perceptive eye as Mary's clear desperation. After all, a child living in the house of a Dutch governor should be plump and rosy.

Mary looked exhausted, but even now Clarke supposed the gears were ever turning in that cunning mind of hers. When would she run out of tricks?

Charlotte got up and walked to the stream. The lieutenant felt a lump tighten his throat as he watched her little hands cup the water and raise it to her lips. _Good God, Mary! Don't you know it could poison her?_

As if she heard his silent reprimand, Mary jolted from her reverie and rushed to stop the child.

Watching her mothering hands caress her daughter sent Clarke's mind back to that short period with her in New South Wales, when she and the children shared his house, his meals. When Charlotte would sit on the floor, playing with the doll he had given her and Mary would kiss her head in passing. He never couldn't help but stop whatever he had been doing to observe the scene. Unconsciously, he would smile, assured that he was now their protector and provider. That what he was doing was right.

_No_, he told himself_, it was all a lie. They were never yours. _

Then, just as quickly as his heart had softened at the memory, his throat thickened at the thought of how Mary had betrayed him. How she had completely and utterly broken his heart in leaving him, in stealing away his happiness. How she had made him a fool.

Smirking, he considered how easy it would be for him to raise his pistol and blow her scheming mind out then and there. She had no idea that he was there, in perfect range with the perfect opportunity. It would be too easy. But, no, he couldn't; Charlotte was there.

Whatever _he_ felt and whatever _she_ did, Clarke could never bring himself to deny that Mary's children were as dear to him as if they were his own. He had convinced himself of as much, at least. In any case, he could not willingly expose Charlotte to the horrors of death, or deprive her of the only thing she had left in the world.

It was Charlotte who decided the fate of her mother in that moment; Charlotte who had decided his fate.

Taking a deep breath to steel his resolve, Clarke stepped out of his foliar hiding place and onto the sandy river-bank.

"Mary," he said evenly, making his presence known.

Mary Bryant jumped and stared at him in wide-eyed fright, too stunned to move, or even to breathe as he drew near her.

He couldn't stomach it when she looked at him that way. It seemed so strange that less than a moment ago he had wanted to murder her and now he couldn't endure to have her gaze at him in fear, so he turned his eyes to Charlotte as she clung to her mother's skirts.

"I had the choice of two ships to bring me home," he said, his voice sounding broken and defeated to his own ears. "I chose this passage because I had to know." He looked back into her crystalline eyes, "I've thought of nothing but you. I've never been so happy with-" He stopped himself from saying Alicia's name. It seemed pointless now, as though he had never married her, as though she were nothing more than a past face. "When you came to me with the children and asked for my help –Such a short time we had together."

"You were so," Mary's voice seemed to break a little as she attempted to regain use of it, "so good to us." She paused once more before making her final admission: "I hated deceiving you."

Clarke looked her directly in the eye, willing himself to find whatever plan was turning through her head. He caught it; she wanted him to rescue her, to free her and he would, but not in the way she imagined.

"I need to get my children away from here," Mary continued, slowly approaching him. "Can you help us?"

"If by _here_, you mean a life of sin, of running and hiding, then my answer is: yes, I will help you," Clarke replied, steeling himself against the sweetness of her breath upon his face, her warmth as she stood so close to him.

In an instant, Mary's face hardened and she made to wretch herself away from him, but he caught her arms and held her fast.

"You have a choice, Mary," he told her, unfazed by her struggles. "You can go back to England and to the gallows-," Clarke seized her more firmly, willing her to be still, to look into his face long enough to understand him. "Or you and your children can stay with me."

Mary stared hard into his green eyes, trying to bore through them and penetrate whatever ruse or lie masked them, but as always there was none there; as always, Ralph Clarke spoke with complete sincerity and integrity.

"What about Will?" she seethed, fixing upon the one hole she could find in all his Christian charity. "What about my husband?"

Clarke had once thought he would find the greatest satisfaction, ethereal elation, and self-fulfilling justification when he told this story to Mary Bryant, the woman who had lied to him, the woman who had seduced him. Now he could barely choke back the shame and it made him want to slap her, want to smother the life out of her, and want to fall at her feet in tears.

_Be thus when thou art dead and I will kill thee and love the after. _Is that not what Othello had said?

He roughly took hold of her pretty face, bringing it inches from his.

"Wilfulness is the root of all sin," he hissed. "Each of us has a daily battle to rein ourselves in. William Bryant failed his test."

The instant those words fell from his mouth, he watched as Mary's eyes went blank. For a moment, it seemed to him that she would fall over dead in his arms. Pain resonated from them, pain he couldn't begin to fathom, pain he couldn't help but absorb as he watched her face turn ashen.

"You bastard!" she shrieked, wailing her thin arms, trying to strike him, to murder him, to rip him apart with her bare hands. Tears blinded her and fever encompassed her as she buffeted him. "You bastard!"

Clarke said nothing, but held on firmly, preventing her from injuring herself, helping her to her knees gently. He didn't shake her, didn't fight back, or strike her as he thought he would. He just remained beside her and when her struggles exhausted themselves into sobs he cradled her against his breast, feeling her hot tears scald him even through his waistcoat.

"Mary," he breathed at length, when he thought her subdued enough. "What will your children do without you? I'm the only one who can protect you now. I'm all you have left in the world. –Hate me all you want. I know you felt nothing for me. I know who you are, Mary Bryant, and I will protect you if you will stay with me. I will forgive your sins against me and I will keep you and your children from harm, I swear it. All you have to do is stay. This is your only chance at life now."

Mary pulled away from him and stared up into his face, determined to spit in it and damn him to hell when she heard Emanuel crying in his basket. For a moment, she just turned and looked toward her son, imagining what would become of him without her. No doubt, he'd end up back on a penal colony in Australia, trapped in the life she had tried to save him from.

Clarke couldn't keep his face from relaxing into a look of safe assurance; he knew that Mary had made her choice. She had chosen him.

His lips curled into a half-smile as he felt his old self return to him.

"He sounds hungry," he said, surprising himself by the warmth he heard in his own voice.

Silently, Mary crawled over to the basket and sat down to take Emanuel in her arms, lowering the shoulder of her dress shamelessly to nurse him.

Clarke was intimately acquainted with every curve of Mary Bryant's body, but the gentleman in him, his scrupled upbringing, made him turn away from the sight.

"Charlotte," he said, kindly. "Do you remember me?"

She nodded slowly.

"Come here, child," he coaxed, extending his hand and beckoning her to him. "It's alright."

Clarke prepared himself for the girl to shrink away from him. She was much like a bird that would fly away from strangers. He had had to be very gentle and patient during those weeks when she lived under his roof. The first time he had reached to her, she had pulled away from him in fear and even on the last day, she had only let him come near enough to sit at the end of the table she while she ate.

To his surprise, Charlotte walked straight up to him and rested her tiny head against his chest. Sighing a little, he enfolded her in his arms as gently as he could for fear he might break her. Little did this angel know she was the sole reason her mother now lived. He could feel Mary's eyes on him from across the way and could only assume that she was hated him for what he had done to her.  
He almost laughed aloud. She had absolutely no idea what he was doing for her, what it cost him to forgive her. It would have been so much easier to just ferry her back to England, to return to his old life and watch her swing, but for some strange reason, he couldn't bear the thought of it. The revenge he had wanted for so very long melted away when he saw her again. Separated from her, living with the humiliation she had left him made it so easy to hate her, made it so easy for him to want to do anything he could to hurt her as deeply as she hurt him. But here, holding her child, listening to her coo her babe, all his thoughts of vengeance justice melted away into one thing:

He loved Mary Bryant.


	2. No Idea Who I Am

Chapter Two:  
No Idea Who I Am

The heat had grown stifling by the time Lt Clarke had returned to the governor's mansion, with Mary in tow. Charlotte was so exhausted by the past twenty-four hours that he insisted upon carrying her back to the settlement himself. Mary was silent along the journey, but he kept hold of her skirt the whole way, even though he knew she would never escape after they had rendezvoused with the marines in the woods, nor did he believe she would try.

She seemed so helpless, so complacent, so defeated. She reminded him of the days onboard the _Charlotte_ when she had lived under his protection, when she had needed his help and he gave it so freely and so blindly. He could not bring himself to speak to her of Charlotte's health, not now, not when she was troubled enough. They would discuss it when all this was over.

"Lt Clarke!" the governor greeted as Clarke and his entourage came upon the British encampment. "I see you have caught her!"

"Governor, this woman is not Mary Bryant," Clarke replied evenly, averting his eyes so that his deception could not be detected.

"But-" the governor's eyes widened as though he had swallowed his own tongue.

"Sir, I knew Mary Bryant," Clarke continued, pretending to desire to allay the governor's fears. "I can assure you, this woman is not her, but is who she says she is, albeit she is not a merchant's wife. Mary Bryant died at sea shortly after the convicts' escape. They kidnapped this woman from her colony near Cape Town and made her obey them under duress. God only knows what the poor child has suffered at their hands."

With a very audible breath, the Dutchman turned and took in the situation. Clarke felt very satisfied looking into the man's dark eyes, knowing that he was willing to believe the story. Whether he truly bought it or not, the truth there wasn't a man among them from Dutchmen to Royal Marine who liked the idea of a mother going to the gallows. Also, Clarke suspected the governor was anxious to appease his sympathetic wife.

"What about the children?" the governor questioned.

"The children are, indeed, Mary's," he answered. "It is a miracle they did not abandon them on the first sandy beach they came across. –I suspect even they had some conscience left. - I intend to claim them as my own and undertake all responsibility for their upbringing."

"But what shall become of the lady?" the governor piqued.

"She has no family," Clarke did not find it so difficult to lie now. "I have offered her my protection and she has accepted it. I am here now to inquire whether it would be permissible for me and my newly acquired family, to seek residence here amongst you. Miss Parker has told me of the happiness she has found here, with you and your wife." Clarke set his mouth now at the irony of how true his next statement would be: "There is nothing for me in England and I wish to protect my children from such an awful past that would follow them there. You must know how there will be talk in London; they could never escape the remembrance of such a father there, even under my roof."

"Of course you must stay, Lt Clarke," the governor agreed quickly, relieved to know that he would get his wife off his back at last.  
Clarke gave a small smile, "Thank you."

………………………………………………………………………………………………

It was with an inexplicable relief that Ralph Clarke watched his ship sail away into the in the light of a setting sun. It seemed odd to him that this path he had chosen, one of deceit that he had so disdained, felt far more atoning than any penance he had secretly held himself to after Mary left him. This path held forgiveness, was that not Scriptural, after all? He had acted upon both virtues taught in the Good Book, justice and mercy. He almost thought of himself as a Boaz or Hosea taking in wicked woman and calling her children his own.

The house he stood in was his own, bought immediately upon his declaration of citizenship in the colony. Naturally, the governor had invited him to stay in his household for a period, but Clarke declined as politely as possible. He said nothing, but he felt he could not rest until he had situated Mary and the children in their own home, a place where they could be safe from prying and curious eyes. The governor seemed only too glad to be rid of them.

"Supper's ready," Mary said tersely.

Clarke turned from the window and greeted the sight before him with no small measure of satisfaction. Charlotte sat at the table, looking up at him with her blue eyes as an ample fair sat before her. He knew she had been well fed at the governor's house, but he preferred to be the one who provided for them.  
Smiling nervously, he remembered how disconcerting her stare had been all those months ago, how he had practically shied away from it as though she were the adult and he the child. It felt like she saw everything that was going through his mind. But here, now, he stared back at her unafraid as he took his seat at the head of the table.

He waited for Mary to sit down across from him, and notably as far away from him as she could get, before clearing his throat purposefully.

"Let us pray," he said reverently, then he and Charlotte bowed their heads over clasped hands, but Mary's head remained erect; staring at him cold and hard. "Almighty God, we thank Thee for this, Thy bounty. We thank Thee for Thy grace and mercy in that You have provided us with home and food. We pray for the souls of those who have perished in their sins and ask for Thy abounding mercy upon our own." Clarke felt his throat tighten. "Amen."

Clarke pretended not to notice that Mary didn't eat at single bite. He also pretended not to notice the malevolence in her eyes as she watched him. He didn't bother with futile attempts at conversation, but ate in silence. He knew what she was thinking, in any case, and he had once thought she was the only person in the world who could understand what went through his mind.

Was everything she said and did an act? Could she really have made love to him so ardently when she felt nothing for him?

He couldn't take his mind off the night she had come to his bed, looking like an angel in the kerosene light of his room. If not for the knowledge that her two children slept in the next room, he would have been convinced she was ignorant of the ways between a man and a woman. He thought, perhaps, she was oblivious to what true love-making was.

Not once had he been able to imagine William Bryant as an affectionate lover, or as anything but a flesh-hungry dog. He couldn't imagine another man loving Mary as he did; purely and blindly.

Shortly after dinner, Clarke found Mary in the children's room, tucking Charlotte into the trundle bed that had come with the house (along with the four-poster double bed in his own room). He stood unnoticed in the doorway as he listened to Mary whisper to her daughter of Heaven and of Cornwall. They looked like two fairies in the golden light and he felt more like a gaoler than their protector. He felt as though he had made it to Heaven and discovered that he didn't belong there.  
Finally, he cleared his throat and knocked upon the doorpost to alert them of his presence. Mary sat up, but kept her back to him as he walked in.

"I've brought a friend of yours, Charlotte," he said, drawing near the bedside and producing her doll from behind his back.

Charlotte smiled and reached for the proffered gift happily, then hugged it close upon reception.

"Mummy," she whispered, "what is his name?"

Clarke looked back and thought it almost funny that she had lived under his roof without knowing his name, but then she had been so very young and so shy.

"His name is Lt Clarke," Mary answered evenly, but with an edge of bitterness clinging to her voice.

"But you must call me 'papa'," Clarke interjected, glancing at Mary to catch her reaction. She didn't respond and he was grateful to have been saved from a row he had almost wanted only a second ago. In any case, this was the time to start afresh, to start right with Charlotte. To say what he should have said the moment he learned of her existence.

"Thank you, papa," Charlotte said softly. She had no idea the term was an endearment for a father.

Clarke smiled and reached out to touch her soft cheek. "I am only glad to reunite you. –She was very sad when you went away and left her. She's missed you terribly."

He could feel Mary's muscles growing tense, even from where he knelt beside the child. He knew that she understood he was not speaking on behalf of the doll.

"Has she?" Charlotte asked innocently.

"Of course not," Mary answered swiftly, ice hanging upon her every syllable. "She's just a doll; she hasn't got any feelings in her. She didn't miss you for one moment." And with that, she jumped to her feet and exited the room.

When Clarke had snuffed out Charlotte's candle and closed her door, he returned to the sitting room to find Mary slumped in an arm chair staring at the ash of the unused hearth.

"I suppose you want something in exchange for your pains," her taunting voice sneered, though she didn't look up at him. "A fast ride, a good roll…"

Before he even knew what he was doing, Clarke was before her, face to face with her, clenching her chin in his right hand. For a moment, his fingers tightened around her jaw and the defiance in her eyes was replaced by fear of his wrath, then, defeated, he released his grip into a caress.

"You have no idea who I am," Clarke heard himself lament; his voice breaking as though tears threatened him.

Mary's eyes looked up at him, her eyes full of surprise, even pity, and he remained there long enough to brush her hair back, long enough to remember how he had once lain beside her while she slept in the crook of his arm and done the same. Then, unbidden, the memory of her standing with Bryant to be married revived itself within his mind, along with the painful remembrance that her heart was not his, that it had been so easy for her to betray him.

He hardened his heart against her, subconsciously thinking he could heal it by so doing, and turned away from her; walked toward the window and made the pretence of looking at the night sky to convince himself he was not hiding from her eyes.

"You may sleep in the children's room," Clarke stated at length. "Goodnight, madam."

He stayed there, unmoving, until he had heard her walk out of the room, until the sound of the nursery door opening and closing again echoed down the small hallway.

Smiling sardonically, his mind wondered with the ship he had abandoned and the papers the captain carried addressed to Alicia Clarke. He wondered how many months it would be until he learned that her signature had graced his.  
_  
Mary Bryant,_ _you must be a witch,_ he thought. _I am giving up everything to be with you. _


	3. Small Crimes

Chapter Three:  
Small Crimes

_Lead me out with the waste; this is not what I d__o  
It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you  
It's the wrong time for somebody new  
It's a small crime I've got no excuse.  
-Damien Rice "9 Crimes"_

Clarke knew that Mary didn't sleep that night. In his mind's eye, he could see her lying in the trundle bed beside Charlotte, staring blankly at the ceiling as he did now within the solitude of his own bed. He imagined her thinking of her late husband, of all they had been through, and of all that lay before her. He wondered if she even remembered those days on the _Charlotte_ when he had cared for her, or if she recalled that he had once been kind to her and her children not so very long ago.

Strangely enough, it did not seem preposterous to him that she should one day forgive him for what happened to William Bryant. After all, despite the hatred he had always harboured toward the man, Clarke was convinced that what happened was just and right. Bryant could have come quietly, like the other two, but no, he was too proud for that. Clarke almost respected him as he had read the ancient Samurai of Japan respected their adversaries who died nobly.

If there was anything Clarke knew for certain, it was that Mary had a very keen survival instinct. She had once been content with her role as his chaste mistress en route to Australia, surely with time she would grow accustomed to this life, as long as she and the children were cared for. If there was one thing he could believe, it was that the only thing that truly mattered to her was the well-being of her children and he intended to ensure that they wanted for nothing.

Yes, surely she would forgive him. Surely God would as well.  
………………………………………………………………………………………..

The next morning, Clarke went into the kitchen to find Mary cooking by the hearth. She didn't so much as look up at the sound of his entrance, so he sat down at the table, foolish words like, "Good morning", and "How are you today?" thickening his throat and paralyzing his tongue. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but where could he possibly begin?

"I'll have your breakfast ready in about five minutes," Mary finally told him flatly.

Clarke's head shot up and he stared across the room to where she stood, minding her cooking. He could remember a time when he had watched soft words stop themselves on her lips when he stood near her, just as they had with him. Mundane conversation had been almost as cautious and as tender as sonnets. Now there was nothing in her voice, not even the sweetness he had always so relished.

"Thank you," he forced himself to say, feeling just as he had those first timid days when he brought her to his cabin. "Where is Charlotte?" he inquired.

"Still asleep," Mary answered, evading his face.

"She has had a trying time these past two days. She must be exhausted." When Mary didn't respond, he ventured further, "And so must you."

His observation never received a true reply, just the sound of pots clashing with stone and an angry hiss from the fire. He started and went to the hearth to see what had happened and saw Mary holding her hand, inspecting a growing red spot that blistered in the centre while the contents of their breakfast fed the fire.

"Damn it all," she winced, her frustration fairly outweighing her pain.

Wordlessly, Clarke reached down and brought her to her feet and pried the maimed hand from the clutches of her whole one to examine it. It was blistering quickly, as though it had touched the flame itself. Still not breaking the silence, he kept hold of her hand and led her to his bedroom.

He poured water into the basin and gently cleaned the burn with lye soap, soothing the sting with his breath when she winced. He didn't dare to look in her face, but he could feel her eyes upon him with every move he made. Did she still hate him? Or was she remembering that, once, she had almost loved him? Trying not to think about it, he carefully rubbed salve into her raw flesh and dressed her hand with a clean linen handkerchief.

"Breakfast," she murmured, making it him forget his resolve to avoid her face and look up to see how very pale she was and how tired her eyes seemed.

Clarke shook his head.

"I'll make it," he said. "I'm rather used to cooking." Sighing, he brushed her hair back. "Get some sleep, Mary."

She didn't respond, she just remained standing there as though she hadn't heard him, as though she were in some sort of trance.

"Mary?" he said softly, trying to elicit some movement to prove she was still alive.Instead, she began to swoon, making him catch her up in his arms swiftly to prevent her toppling to the floor. Cradling her like a child, he carried her to his bed and laid her down upon the tick mattress. Lying there, she looked so like the girl he had known on the _Charlotte_, the one he had watched sleep every night.

Where was this new proverbial ship taking them now?

Mary slept for two days. He had never seen her sleep so deeply, as though she were trying to remain as far away from this world and the painful reality it nurtured as she possibly could.

During the day, he kept himself occupied by caring for the children and making plans to for the house and grounds. He changed the bandages on Mary's hand; he sketched portraits of Charlotte sitting on the lawn and of Emanuel in his crib while he slept. He listened for any sound of stirring from his bedroom.

At night, Clarke made sure the children were safe and well within their beds, like the protective father he considered himself to be; then, as quietly as a mouse, he opened the door to his room and shone a candle upon the bed to find Mary still asleep.

Standing in the threshold like a sentinel, watching her with a bittersweet mixture of adoration, guilt, and bitterness swelling within his breast, he counted the times she had hurt him. First: when she left his protection on the _Charlotte_. Second: when she married William Bryant. Third: when she gave a fisherman a child. Fourth, and greatest of all: when she came to his home, to his bed, solely for the purpose of deceiving him.

Choking back the resentment, he culpably remembered all the times he had hurt her. First: when she told him of her unborn child and he tore away from, he left her so coldly and so harshly. Second: when he ordered the whipping of another because of the anger he felt towards her. Third: when he killed her husband.  
It was so strange: how their small crimes against one another had escalated into such black treacheries. He wondered how they could ever hope for forgiveness, yet he prayed for it all the same.

On the second day, the Governor's wife called upon them. Clarke had been in the garden with Charlotte, teaching the child how to plant daffodils along the veranda while Emanuel slept in his basket beside them. Upon seeing her approach, the former marine felt a sudden apprehension. Somehow, he knew she would find some way to torment him for the past.

When she entered the garden, without invitation, he rose to his feet, instructing Charlotte to do the same, and stood coolly as she drew near.

"Madam," he said, bowing at the shoulders.

"Lt Clarke," Marleen greeted curtly. "Hello, Charlotte," she said, smiling and bending to kiss the girl.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Clarke inquired uneasily, keeping his hand upon Charlotte's shoulder.

"I've come to see Miss Parker," Marleen answered. "I've been teaching her how to read and write; I thought we would continue, with your permission, of course."

Clarke felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. He had been the first person to undertake Mary's education and he felt a pang of jealousy at the thought that she had gone on without him, in every way.

"I'm afraid Miss Parker is indisposed at the moment," he was half-relieved to say. "Perhaps you could call back in a day or so," he suggested, ever the well-bred Englishman.

"Thank you, sir," the woman would not be thwarted, "but I would prefer to see her now. I'm sure she will not object to the company."

Knowing that the Governor's wife had left no room for retreat, Clarke let out a small sigh of defeat.

"Come with me," he relented, leading Marleen into the house.

He opened the door to the bedroom with no small amount of reluctance and allowed it to swing upon its hinges, revealing the sleeping form on the bed.

"This is your room?" Marleen stated, rather than asked, shooting a dagger at him with her eyes.

"She swooned," Clarke informed her justly, bristled at her insinuation. "I carried her to my bed because it was nearest at the time and have left her there because this is the room she is least likely to be disturbed. I have slept in the parlour."

Even as he spoke, he couldn't suppress the nagging feeling of hypocrisy as he defended himself to her. Yes, he had conducted himself honourably in this instance, but did he mean to make this woman think he had never touched her? Did he intend to presume that abstaining from Mary Bryant could redeem him for his other sins against her?

"When was this?" Marleen inquired.

"Yesterday morning," he replied.

"And she has not woken since?"

He shook his head.

"Go and make some broth and some tea," Marleen instructed, sweeping into the room and perching herself at Mary's side. "You do know how to do that, don't you?"

"I am quite adept in the fundamentals of cooking, ma'am," Clarke returned brusquely.

"Then go!" the little Dutch woman commanded, shooing him away.

Clarke bit his tongue to hold back his protestations against being ordered about in his own house, remembering that she was the Governor's wife, a lady, and a guest and marched into the kitchen to do her bidding.

It wasn't Marleen's presence that unnerved him so; it was because she had had the presence of mind to know what ought to be done, when he had not. It was because she seemed to have earned Mary's love, the love he was so jealous for. It was because he believed Mary would awaken at her coaxing, but never his.

When he returned to the bedroom with the tea and broth, he found the Governor's wife smiling into the face of a flushed and awakened Mary. Seeing her blue eyes flutter in the sunlight for the first time in days, caused his heart to skip a beat and he couldn't resist the old smile she had always been able to wring from him with the slightest ease.

"Come in, Lieutenant," Marleen's voice instructed, shaking him from his reverie.

Clearing his throat, he proceeded into the room, taking care not to splash the contents of his burden. He could feel her eyes on him again and he wondered if it would always be thus, but decided it was far better to feel her eyes watching him than to think that he may never see them again.

He set the tray upon the bed next to Mary and ventured to look down upon her now subdued face.

For a moment, they lingered, caught in each other's gaze. She seemed so complacent and quiet, while he felt as though a bird were bashing itself to pieces inside of him. How could still feel this way, after all that had happened?

"I am glad to see you awake," he finally stuttered.

Mary didn't respond and Clarke felt the tension between them increase tenfold. Once upon a time, she had looked up at him in gratitude and contentment while he spoon fed her broth. He had been elated to see her shining eyes, overjoyed to hear her speak of turning from wickedness.

It amazed him how different this moment was. He felt the same ecstasy he always had when looking at her, but it seemed to be forever tainted by the blood and tears between them. He had crossed oceans to find her, only to discover that the widest, deepest, and stormiest lay in the breath of air that now separated them. That its waves crashed over William Bryant's body, over his own pride, over her pain, and he didn't have a ship to cross it.  
Sensing that he had long overstayed his welcome, he nodded politely, nervously, and made his exit.


	4. Let's Call It Even

WARNING: Strong language.

Chapter Four:  
Let's Call It Even  
_  
You call it over and I call you 'psycho'.  
Significant other?  
Just say we were lovers and we'll call it even.  
- The Dresden Doll's "Truce"_

Marleen laid a blanket out on the lawn and fed Charlotte her dinner in the fresh air. Clarke watched from the window of the parlour, feeling no inclination toward the sweet air or the blue skies. It pleased him to see Charlotte smile so, though he wondered at the prudence of eating out-of-doors. He did not think he would never be eased until the child had grown a few more inches and had a better complexion and he made a note to consult the governor's wife regarding this before her departure.

Mary remained cloistered in his room, though he could hear the steady rhythm of her feet as she paced the floor. He only ventured there once after her awakening to bring her children to her side. He stood near the door, as if trying to keep his retreat covered, watching as Charlotte climbed into the bed and told her about daffodils and how they must be cared for. Emanuel babbled happily in his mother's arms as though he were contributing to his sister's lecture in botany, coaxing a warm gleam into Mary's eyes.

Clarke had put Emanuel to bed an hour ago, firmly brushing off Marleen's insistence to do so herself. Once he had told Mary that he had only found escape from his internal prison when she and the children came to him. It was true and it still was. He had never held a child before Mary brought Emanuel to his house, but caring for the infant seemed to come naturally for some strange reason. He found comfort in the responsibility that came with his new charge.

"Where's the baby?" asked Mary's thin voice, jolting him from his reverie.

"Emanuel is in his crib," Clarke answered. "He ought to be asleep by now."

"Who has fed him?" she wondered, approaching, "Who's changed him? Played with him?"

"I have," he replied, barely swallowing his satisfaction. "Also, Charlotte has been most helpful."

Mary only looked at him curiously for a moment, making him wonder what was going through her head, and walked past him to watch her daughter through the window.

Clarke stepped aside to give her ample room. Somehow, he felt she might bite him.

"She's a remarkable child," he stuttered, hoping to reach her even for a little while. "She never complains, she's never cross," he smiled as he continued, "and  
Emanuel never cries; he's always giggling at something. He adores Charlotte."

When there was no response from the window, Clarke decided to venture further.

"Charlotte was very worried about you," he said. "She's very brave."

"She ought to be," Mary's voice denoted more than a little irony, "she's had nothing but hardship her whole life.

Clarke responded hastily, emphatically, and blindly: "I promise you, that she will never know worry or want again. The children will have everything I can give them."

"So you kill a man and steal his family?" Mary scoffed, turning so that he could see the caustic laugh that played her face. "Is that the privilege of gentlemen?"

Clarke bit his tongue, unable to respond to her question. His cheeks paled with shame as she brought his sins into the light, as she reminded him of his crimes.

"Are you even sorry, or does your God call it just for a gentleman, a man who is only good because he has never been starved to the point of thievery, to kill a bad man who was only trying to bring his children up somewhere where they could be free?"

"And what of the men you've killed?" Clarke rounded upon her, cold eyes glaring. "What of Sam Lily? He was a boy, Mary! A boy! And you left him to die." He was panting now, far from finished. "What of the other men in your brood? You left with five men, we only found four. Were you so terribly hungry in that little boat, Mary?"

"You have no idea what we went through to get this far!" Mary hissed; steely blue eyes ablaze with fire.

"With you, the only woman in a boat with five men," Clarke retorted, "I can well imagine."

"Go to hell," she seethed.

"I well may," he returned, closing the space between them until their faces were inches apart.

"If you hate so hate me," she queried, eyes staring back into his fearlessly, "why did you not send me to the gallows? Why did you protect me, if not to keep your whore?" Mary's eyes shone with unshed tears that succeeded effortlessly in unmanning him.

Unbidden, Clarke's hand reached to up to trace the outline of her jaw and he felt his heart soften.

"Because" he whispered, "every time I look at you, I see the innocent girl I knew on the _Charlotte_. And, despite all I know, I can't help but believe, with every fibre of my being, that you're still that girl."

"What could you possibly know of who I was or what I am?" she challenged.

Clarke turned and marched to the mantle piece, unable to endure her gaze.

"My greatest regret," he said at length, his voice forced and ragged, "is that I was not born William Bryant." And with that, he strode from the room, careful not to let her see the tears in his eyes.

Alone in his room, he didn't care if the sound of the door slamming woke the baby or made Charlotte wince. No one could see him pace frantically like a caged animal, trying to break free or watched him take up his Bible and fling it at the mirror with all his might. No one could quite discern the strangled cry that escaped his throat or knew that he had fallen to his knees in the middle of the floor.

When he was a child, the parson had told him about King David and how he ruled all Jerusalem and God had given him everything he could have asked for. But one night, David saw Bathsheba, another man's wife, bathing on a roof and he desired her. He summoned her to the palace and took her to his bed. When David learned that Bathsheba was with child, he ordered his general to put her husband, a soldier in the army, on the very front lines, and when the man was dead, David took Bathsheba as his wife.

All of his life, Clarke had scorned David for his weakness, for his selfishness. After all, David had many wives and great wealth, the soldier had nothing. Yet God had seen fit to bless David, even in His punishment, and to love him throughout all that happened to him. God had forgiven weakness, had tendered justice with mercy.

Was God's clemency limited only unto Kings?


	5. Silent Oceans

Disclaimer: All copyrights belong to their respected holders.

Chapter Five:  
Silent Oceans  
_"Oceans apart, day after day  
And I slowly go insane...  
I hear the laughter, I taste the tears  
But I can't get near you now."  
Richard Marx "Right Here Waiting"_

After that night, Clarke and Mary barely spoke more than two words to one another and seemed content to evade each other's company. They fell into a silent routine of mealtimes, devotions (Clarke's stalwart insistence), and cool indifference. When Mary was in the kitchen, Clarke was gardening with Charlotte; when Mary was in the nursery with Emanuel, Clarke was in the parlour going over paper work and accounts. If Charlotte cried, both adults came running; when she played in the garden, watched through the windows of separate rooms in the house.

Charlotte seemed to cry more often. A doctor had come to examine her, proclaimed her well and left her very dissatisfied mother and guardian to ponder separately what ought to be done.

They allowed Charlotte to roam the garden freely and her mother took her on frequent walks to visit the governor's wife, but Clarke always insisted she be well within doors before twilight. He seemed mortally afraid of the night air when it came to Charlotte and Emanuel.  
Clarke had hoped the fresh air would improve the child's health, but she seemed increasingly languid and her bedtime came earlier and earlier every week.

One late afternoon, Clarke was sitting on the veranda with a half drunken cup of tea on the window sill beside him and a disregarded book in his hand. Mary had taken the children for another walk and he expected her to be back soon. When she had first begun these excursions, Clarke was almost certain she would never come back, that she would put the children in a row boat and take to the sea. He almost didn't care if she did. Nonetheless, she came back before sunset that day and had continued to do so every day for nearly a month now.

For nearly a month, he spent his afternoons wondering if this would be the day she left him forever until evening finally came and he would see her white form drawing near in the sunlight, allaying his fears another day.  
Today she came back earlier than wont and Clarke could only assume it was because of Charlotte's fatigue. He sat up when he saw them enter the garden and noted that the child seemed worn out and Mary's eyes looked unmistakably helpless and defeated as they gazed back at him.

The child stepped onto the veranda and went straight to Clarke's chair, causing him to start a little. She had never once approached him without invitation before, but today she wordlessly climbed into his lap and laid her head upon his breast.

Clarke watched Mary over Charlotte's head as he pressed a fatherly kiss to the girl's temple and put his arm around her shoulders protectively.

"Where did you go today, Charlotte?" he inquired, trying to sound cheerful.

"We went to my dad's grave, papa," Charlotte answered plainly, causing Clarke's face to go ashen. "We go there every day."

Mary pretended not to notice the look within his eyes, but took Emanuel inside for a nap.

"What do you do there?" he asked, forcing himself to remain neutral.

"We put flowers on it," she replied. "We always pick the prettiest ones."

"I doubt they were as pretty as you, dear heart," Clarke smiled fondly.

"I'm tired," Charlotte sighed.

"Then papa will put you to bed," he told her warmly, standing with her in his arms, amazed at how light she felt.

He carried her into the nursery where Mary stood over Emanuel's crib humming lullabies to hush the lad to sleep. She glanced up at them as he entered the room and he could feel her eyes upon him as he laid the sleeping child upon her bed.

They seemed to brand him as he carefully removed Charlotte's small slippers and untied the sash on her dress. Changing the girl into her night shift would be her mother's responsibility, but affection and ever growing trepidation gave him the strength to forbear Mary's piercing eyes long enough to perform mundane duties, duties he deemed appropriate for a father, and press a final kiss upon his foster-daughter's brow.

As soon as he had seen to Charlotte's comfort, he quit the room and went to sit in the parlour. He had considered retrieving his book from the veranda, or completing the accounts he had left unfinished the night before, but he knew his mind was too distracted for either. All he could think about was Charlotte and what on earth could be wrong with her, what could be done to make her well.

Mary followed him shortly after he quit the nursery. She seemed to have something she wanted to say or ask of him, but she was silent upon finding him in such a state.

"She is flushed," Clarke referred to Charlotte, never changing his gaze from the cold hearth, "and feverish. If she is not well by morning, I will send for a physician."

"Thank you," Mary said quietly, in a tone of voice that persuaded him to look at her.

"Mary," he said. "Don't take her to that grave again."

She said nothing, but gave him a cold look and left the room. If Clarke had been a man with a gift of expressing himself through words, he could have told her that he attributed Charlotte's disposition to the distress of being taken to a place fraught with such horrible memories, that he did not think it healthy for such a young girl to spend her days surrounded by death, but he was not and therefore said nothing further.

He didn't expect to see Mary again for the rest of the night, but she soon surprised him by bringing him a cup of tea and a plate of scrambled eggs and potatoes for supper. He thanked her politely, wondering if he could venture to invite her to eat with him, but ultimately decided against it. Mary was impossible to predict.  
She surprised him again by sitting down across from him and taking up the book he had left discarded upon the carpet.

"How are your lessons coming along?" he braved asking.

"I can barely understand this page," she replied, looking up at him with one of her laughing smiles.

When Clarke smiled back at her, it seemed that she remembered that she must not be happy in his presence and he watched her smile diminish slowly.

"Read it aloud," he entreated. "It's the best way to begin."

Mary hesitated, her eyes growing more distant with every second and Clarke was desperate to keep her with him for as long as possible.

"Please, Mary," he said.

"I am too tired," she objected, standing up. "My eyes hurt."

Clarke suppressed a sigh; he had lost her again. He said nothing as she cleared away the remnants of his meal and left him alone in the parlour, he only sat and listened to her move about the kitchen, washing dishes, washing herself (her habit in the evening so she wouldn't wake the children), before finally retiring to the nursery.

When he saw the light under the nursery door extinguish, Clarke took a letter from his waist coat and re-read it in the dim light of the candle beside him.  
Alicia was dead. She had expired months before he had left Botany Bay, unaware that had she lived a little longer she might have read her own divorce papers.  
Clarke took this, too, with no small measure of guilt. He had realized long ago that he had made a grave mistake in marrying Alicia, but he could never bring himself to loathe her for not being the woman he needed, the woman he could love, or who could love him.

There were many things that had not gone as he planned them, or as he wanted them to. Actually, when he thought of it, he realised, that he had never once had a plan to begin with. Go to Australia, advance himself in rank, yes, but beyond that, the particulars were far from his mind.  
Desires and dreams eluded him; he was lost at sea.

The next morning, Charlotte was up with the sun and in, seemingly, good health. She and Clarke spent the morning in the garden, tending to her budding daffodils while Mary had a lesson with Marleen on the veranda. He had grown fond of those times when he and Mary would conduct themselves as two people who could be civil to one another; he could even pretend that they were a proper English couple raising their children.

The children became the common ground Mary and Clarke could always meet upon. With great relief, he saw that she understood his devotion to the children and seemed to silently give her blessing. In any case, he knew that she needed his help, whether she wanted it or not. When Charlotte was sickly, he was always by her side in the nursery, caring for the child or tending to the baby so that Mary could look after the girl. He lavished the children with toys and taught Charlotte everything her little mind could retain about botany and science; things Mary had always wanted her children to know, but knew she may never be able to provide them with on her own.

"You're doing very well, Mary," Clarke heard Marleen say. He overlooked the fact that she had used Mary's Christian name, rather than the alias of "Elizabeth". In the village, or the halls of the governor's mansion, they kept up the façade of English gentleman and his unfortunate, but heroic ward, but in the safety of Clarke's house, his home, pretences were dropt all together.

"How is the pupil coming along?" Clarke inquired, seizing the opportunity for some polite conversation regarding Mary if he couldn't hold conversation with her.

"Wonderfully," the governor's wife responded, turning to see him stand up and brush the grass and soil off of his knees. "She makes excellent progress."

"She's always had a keen mind," he replied, his eyes falling upon a shy and downcast Mary with a sentimental feeling of pride. His Mary didn't change, she was still there.

"Mummy," Charlotte squealed, "come look at my daffodils! Papa says they'll bloom before the week is out."

"Charlotte," Clarke admonished gently, "didn't I tell you that it's improper to speak unless you're spoken to?"

He knew Mary didn't approve of his rigid standards, but she never complained. He had never punished Charlotte, after all, just filled her head with strict, English manners. He didn't think he could ever discipline Charlotte, or imagine that such a complacent child would ever give him reason to.

"Sorry," the girl murmured, lowering her head.

"Sorry?"

"Sorry, papa," she corrected, effortlessly winning a smile from the former lieutenant.

"Oh, very well," Clarke sighed, reaching down to ruffle her sandy locks. "Run along and play, darling. You can show mummy your daffodils after Madame goes home."

"Yes, papa," Charlotte replied, looking up at him with a smile, causing his own face to beam.

Years of service and combat in the Royal Army had seasoned Clarke to many things; to foul weather, to foul people, to heat, to cold. He was well acquainted with warfare and could not remember the last time he had flinched at the sound of firing muskets. Still, no amount of training or conditioning could have prepared him for the sensation he felt when Charlotte threw her arms about his waist and hugged him with all her young might.

She remained only a brief moment then ran off to retrieve her doll from the shade of a palm tree and make preparations for a tea party.

"What a lady she is becoming," Marleen observed.

Clarke turned to see the governor's wife standing at the edge of the veranda and realised she was addressing him.

"She reminds me of her mother," he replied, catching his error too late.

"You said you knew Mary Bryant," the lady pressed further, a sharp gleam in her eye.

Clarke glanced beyond the billow of her skirts to see Mary sitting flushed and rigid, her quill frozen in her hand, clutched between white-hot fingertips.

"I did, madam," he answered without taking his eyes off the nervous form behind his distinguished guest.

"What was she like?" she questioned.

"She was very young, only seventeen," he told her, his mind returning to the first time Mary spoke with him, when she boldly asked him to take her in. He still remembered how he couldn't help but smile when she told him her name. "She was sent to Botany Bay for stealing a bonnet when her family was starving. She loved to learn, she soaked knowledge dry ground thirsty for water. Most of all, the best part of her, was her optimism; despite all she had been through, she believed everything would be alright, that there was a fresh start waiting for her at the end of line."

"It is a sad thing that she is gone, then," Marleen observed, her voice drifting through Clarke's mind as carelessly as breeze.

He felt his jaw become taut.

"Mary Bryant died long before the ship reached Botany Bay," he said. "Along with any character I ever possessed."

At those words, Mary's head shot up and she met his eyes straight-on. Her face looked as terrible and as fierce as a rising bluff on the sea; her face was the white foam, her eyes the water that threatened to engulf all within her path.

Clarke forced his mouth into a polite smile and nodded curtly to the lady before retreating to the solitude of the parlour.

The women seemed not to know he had chosen that part of the house, that he could catch glimpses of them when the Indian breeze blew the curtains into the room, or that he could hear their conversation.

"Mary," he heard Marleen's voice speak, "is he cruel to you?"

"He's never hit me, if that's what you mean," was the frank reply.

"And does he," the first lady seemed hesitant to speak it, "require retribution for his protection."

A stronger breeze came through, catching the curtain like a sail and flying it to the ceiling. Clarke unconsciously retreated from view of the window, but not before he watched a plain faced, distant-eyed Mary shake her head.

"You still wear your ring," Marleen observed, apparently satisfied enough to change the subject.

"I waited my whole life for a proper wedding ring," Mary told her wistfully.

"Darling," said the older woman tenderly, reaching out to touch her friend's face, "do you realise what would happen to you if someone noticed? You would go straight back to England or to New South Whales. And the lieutenant would be shot."

Clarke felt his throat thicken; he had always known the risk, but he knew better than to stir Mary's ire. The golden band upon her finger always reminded him of Bryant, of the past, and in a strange he had grown to love, or at least to accept it, as part of the earthly punishment for his mortal sins.

"I don't care," Mary said flatly.

"You don't?" Marleen challenged.

Long after the children had been put to bed, Clarke dared to enter the kitchen (one of the two places he never ventured to apart from mealtimes) and found Mary standing at the toilette table at the far end of the room.

She seemed transfixed by the sight of her left hand in the amber light of the candle beside her, as though she were memorising the look of it. Slowly, she drew the band up the length of her slender finger and, with the reluctance of a man who must cut off his own arm, she placed it upon the table.

Clarke took another step into the kitchen, the sound of his heal upon the wooden floor alerting her of his presence. She whirled around to face him, startled.

"Wear the ring in the house," Clarke told her thickly. "Only take care that it is not seen by anyone other than me."

Mary nodded slowly; he returned it awkwardly and turned to exit.

"Lieutenant," she called after him, making him stop and turn back to face her. "Thank you," she said sincerely.

Clarke couldn't stop the sad smile that formed upon his face.


	6. Daffodils for Charlotte

Chapter Six:  
Daffodils for Charlotte

When the Governor held a ball in honour of his wife's Forty-second birthday, Clarke found it impossible to decline, despite his own trepidations about attending. In truth, he hated anything that took him or his "family" amongst society; he was certain that some English soldier would present himself and reveal Clarke's carefully preserved lie. This was the life he had chosen: a life built upon his principles and his faith in salvation, yet bought with a crime.

On the night of the affair, Clarke ushered Miss Elizabeth Mary Parker about upon his arm, trying not to notice how radiant she looked in rose-coloured silk with her hair curled into delicate tendrils over her smooth neck. He felt strange himself, in a brown velvet jacket, albeit more comfortable out of uniform.

Mary was whisked away from his side at nearly every dance; every Dutchman in the room was in love with her and all seemed very pleased that she was a single Englishwoman who fell into calamity, rather than the brave wife of a merchant. Clarke watched her smile politely at every gentleman, but her face was distant and her looks forced.

The Mary Bryant he remembered would have laughed to be spun about so. She had always been so like a child; she was thrilled by each sensation that came her way and she soaked it up like a sea sponge. This Mary Bryant looked older, wiser, and tired.

Not even a moment after she had been returned to Clarke's side by one dance partner, another came to stake a claim.

"Thank you, sir," Clarke interjected before Mary could respond to the lad's invitation, "but the lady is quite done in. It's far too hot for dancing, don't you agree?"

Paled and clearly jaded, the gentleman straightened the lapels of his jacket, nodded to Mary, and stalked off –presumably to complain about English manners.

"Thank you," he heard Mary's soft voice murmur beside him.

He turned his head to see her clear eyes scanning the room, but the glint in them affirmed that she had, indeed, said it. When, in her surveillance, her eyes rested upon him once more, he smiled warmly. She was the girl at the helm of the _Charlotte_ again and he was the boy seeing the Equator for the first time, only to realise the most wonder-some thing in the world stood beside him.

"Lieutenant Clarke," greeted Marleen coming to join them, "how is your garden coming along?"

"This heat is wonderful for it," he replied, smiling pleasantly and freely for the first time in he couldn't remember how many months. "Charlotte's daffodils have bloomed and she is delighted over them. She's got a green thumb, that girl."

Out of the corner of his eye, Clarke caught a gleam of maternal pride upon Mary's face.

"My, but you do dote upon her," Marleen praised, glancing at Mary. "Most men do not even speak of their own children unless prompted."

"The lieutenant treats Charlotte and Emanuel like his own," Mary said quietly.

Clarke couldn't train his face to hide the shock her statement gave him.

What the governor's wife said next, he could never remember; he registered her words absently and gave them polite and sufficient response, but his mind remained upon Mary's words and the hope they instilled with him. She appreciated his care for her children; perhaps she could come to appreciate his other merits. Perhaps this was a step toward forgiveness?

If dancing had been unforgiving, dinner was torture. The air seemed to close in about the party packed about the table in a dining room that, by English standards, could have only held a company of half their size comfortably. Still, the Dutch seemed to enjoy the intimacy of it; they had no objection to one another's company even at such close quarters. The Dutch also had no objection to a breech of privacy, as Clarke would soon learn.

"So, Lt Clarke," the governor addressed him, "I am sorry this comes so late, but I have only just heard; please allow me to express my condolences to you for your wife's untimely passing."

Clarke felt his spine stiffen and knew that, at the other end of the table, Mary's eyes were rounding upon him, wide and shocked, while Marleen observed the scene judiciously.

"Thank you, governor," he forced himself to say, pressing his lips into a polite and expected half-smile that was not echoed in any other part of his features beyond his mouth.

"But you are young," the governor continued, "surely you will marry again."

A glance at Marleen's sharp eyes alerted Clarke to their intention and a surveillance of the table told him that every man and woman seated there had a similar idea, whether they found it repugnant or desirable.

"I do hope so, sir," he replied, with perfect English decorum.

And, with that, the subject was dropped. Clarke couldn't help but feel a small ethnocentric satisfaction that he had so quickly evaded a subject that was aroused solely to bring him discomfort. British fortitude and discretion versus foreign interference; the older and sounder policy had won out.

His pride was short-lived and heavily outweighed by the looks and the whispers that abounded freely at the governor's table. The knowledge that he and Mary were the object of their gossip, (however politely disguised in soft, Dutch words,) bore heavily upon his mind and temperament, making the sweltering room that much closer. A careful glimpse at Mary assured him thoroughly of her discomfort and he inwardly resolved that they should make their adieus at the first polite opportunity.

The governor had graciously offered to send them home in a rickshaw, but Clarke declined as courteously as possible, stating that he enjoyed the exercise and fresh air. When Miss Parker, as a fragile lady, was mentioned, Mary quickly informed the governor that she would appreciate a stroll on such fine night.

Mary held Clarke's proffered arm until they were out of sight of the governor's mansion, then casually slipped away from him. Despite the heat, he could not deny that he missed the weight of her hand upon his sleeve.

"Why don't you take that damn coat off?" Mary asked him, wrenching him from the endless thoughts that battled over his mind.

"Because I am a gentleman and you are a lady, Miss Parker," he replied, smiling wryly. "I would not compromise you."

"Don't pretend I'm anything other than what I am," she told him frankly, causing him to turn and look at her. Her blue eyes were earnest and sincere, with only the slightest trace of warning.

Without a word, he conceded and slid the jacket off his shoulders, letting out a sigh of relief when he felt the cool sea-breeze caress his skin through the thin linen of his shirt.

"How long?" Mary asked, not needing to say more.

"A few weeks," Clarke replied. "The letter came with the last English ship from Botany Bay."

"You never said anything," she remarked dryly.

"I didn't think there was anything to say," he returned, catching a glimpse of her profile in the moonlight. She seemed to be purposefully fixing her eyes on the sea.

They were silent the rest of the way home.

At the house, they found the maid Marleen had sent to watch over the children nodding off in the arm chair by the hearth. Clarke stood aside while Mary gently woke the girl, thanked her, and sent her home then watched her go to the mantle to retrieve her band from its hiding place. She put it on hastily, as though she were trying to cover herself, and he found himself looking away as though she were indecent.

He felt like he was drowning; one moment she spoke to him without the slightest trace of malevolence, the next she put on that ring, that single object in which all his sins were remembered.

"Goodnight, Mary," he forced himself to say, making to retire to his bedroom.

"Will you see the governor in the morning, then?" Mary asked, staying him.

He looked over his shoulder to see her back turned to him. Her head was inclined over her shoulder, but her eyes were downcast, evading his look. He knew her too well not to know what she meant, but he could scarcely allow himself to believe it.

"Do you think next Sunday would be a good day?" she inquired.

"Next Sunday is as good a day as any, I suppose," he stammered, feeling his breath catch. "I will speak to the governor tomorrow afternoon."

"Goodnight then," she said simply.

Lieutenant Ralph Clarke and Elizabeth Mary Parker were wed in the Governor's parlour with the Governor's wife and secretary as their witnesses. The bride held a bouquet of yellow daffodils at Charlotte's insistence. In London, Clarke thought, they would have been considered ridiculous with her calico dress, but they seemed perfect here and now, perfect for Mary.

As they spoke their vows, they could hear the sounds of Charlotte and Emanuel's laughter as they played in the garden, just within Clarke's careful view. It seemed inappropriate to have the children witness this; this was an adult moment, a legal procedure. If it had been a real wedding, a happy one, the matter would be different, but this was a deed signing, this adoption, this was ownership.

Clarke never once deluded himself that Mary was pledging herself to him for any other reason than her children's security and reputation. Gossip was spreading fast through the village about the English couple and it was only a matter of time before Charlotte was old enough to understand it. They had always been in agreement on one thing; the children would lead lives that were not tainted by their crimes, not if either of them could help it.

Nonetheless, when Clarke took Mary's hand in his and pledged himself to her, no amount of strength or common sense could still his beating heart.  
He had bought the ring shortly after drawing up the papers with the governor. It was single pearl set in a slender gold band. In the New Testament, the Kingdom of Heaven was likened to a pearl that was so precious that a merchant sold all of his goods to possess it. Clarke, being a rich man despite his high morals, could never understand the prudence of exchanging a lifetime of security for a single thing; now there he stood, a man without rank, without country, without dignity, but he was, at last, in possession of the only thing he had ever truly wanted.

The Clarkes found their children in the shade of the mansion's veranda, the boy cooing in his basket and the girl resting her head languidly upon the maid's lap.

Noting the worried expression upon his bride's face, Clarke calmly knelt and touched Charlotte's face, causing the girl to look up at him wearily.

"Can we go home now, papa?" she asked weakly.

Clarke forced a cheery smile. "Of course, darling," he replied.

Nodding thanks to the maid, he scooped the girl up in his arms and turned to see the fear in Mary's eyes. He could fain indifference when confronted with London society, he could demonstrate fortitude when addressing his superiors and subordinates, he could even disguise his disgust when dealing with less than savoury men who happened to be gentlemen because they wore silk trousers, but he could never hide a single emotion when he faced Mary Bryant.  
_  
Mary Clarke_, he mentally corrected.

When Mary looked at him, he could literally feel all of his defences come crashing down, leaving him vulnerable and helpless against her penetrating gaze. He would have given anything to be able to lie with his eyes once, just once, to hide the doubts and trepidations that plagued him, to ease her mind for just one moment, but he couldn't.

At home again, for the first time as Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Clarke, Clarke put Charlotte in her bed, kissed her head, and left her mother to prepare her for bed. Emanuel, in stark contrast to his sister, was uncommonly fussy and demanded the full attention of at least one adult, so Clarke took the lad into the parlour and walked him about.

The boy had been running a temperature all morning, but Mary attributed it to a new tooth he was cutting. This was the second tooth he had grown since the four of them had moved into to the house and Clarke had developed a technique for easing the baby; insert a clean finger into his mouth and let the child gnaw on at will.

In any case, Clarke welcomed the distraction Emanuel afforded him. Rocking the baby justified his uneasy pacing and the precious burden in his arms eased the ache and burning guilt within him.

"Charlotte's asking for you," Mary said, coming to take Emanuel.

Clarke silently tendered the babe to his mother, taking care not to meet her eyes; there were enough thoughts running through his head.

When he came to the nursery door, he saw Charlotte lying in the bed; her golden head look so innocent and fragile upon the dawn pillow. He couldn't refrain from thinking that she must be an angel, or wonder how long God would allow such wicked mortals to possess her. He could still remember the first time he knew of her, when he felt her kicking against the walls of her mother's womb.

He knew now that he would sell his soul to be able to go back and remain with Mary in that moment. If only he had not been so proud, so stupid. He knew the ways of the world, he knew what kind of men Mary had been exposed to, and he knew that she had been defenceless before he met her. Back then, he had been afraid for his own reputation, that people would think he was responsible. Now he realised that he was responsible, that he should have been a better man, a braver man.

Quietly, he knocked on the doorframe with the knuckle of his forefinger, alerting her of his presence. When she greeted him with a childish smile and called him _papa_, he entered the room and sat down upon the edge of the bed.

"Papa," she whispered softly. "I want to see my daffodils."

"You can take care of your daffodils in the morning, dear heart," he replied tenderly, trying not to stammer. "Right now, you must get some sleep."

"But, papa," she protested.

"In the morning," Clarke insisted, taking her small hand and enclosing it in his large one. "I promise."

...

The next morning it rained, but it didn't matter because Charlotte was too ill to leave her bed. She was too ill to complain that Emanuel never stopped crying, too ill to be frightened when her foster-father threw the physician against the wall and made to strangle the man for his faulty initial diagnosis. She was too ill to care that there were no less than two people in the nursery at all times, or to notice when Emanuel stopped crying.

She had one request and one request only: "I want to see my daffodils."

At that, Clarke charged toward the garden, caring not that the rain was coming down in stinging torrents, or for the wind that threatened to blow him away. The rain fell so heavily, he couldn't feel the tears in his own eyes, nor could he explain the reason the ache within his breast seemed to give way. He picked the prettiest daffodils he could find and bound them in the black ribbon that held his hair back, then carried his spray into the nursery.

He laid them in Charlotte's arms.


	7. Leave the Living

Disclaimer: Copyrights belong to their respective owners.  
WARNING: It gets a little steamy.

Chapter Seven:  
Leave the Living

Mary stood at the foot of the bed, silent and still, but Clarke fell to his knees, staring dumbly into Charlotte's grey face. He took her tiny hand, her precious little hand, and felt that it was cold and limp within his. Losing Emanuel had been almost bearable; he had accepted that the boy was not strong enough to survive Typhoid, but Charlotte was so like her mother, Charlotte was Mary's life, was Clarke's joy. This loss was too great to bear and so he buried his face in the blankets and wept silently like a child.

...

Two small graves flanking on large one; Mary didn't even have to ask Clarke to have the children buried by William Bryant. It seemed unreal to be standing next to his unmoving wife over the graves of two innocent children. If it had been his funeral, he would have understood her silence, but he expected Mary's grief to overcome her. He had expected torrents of hysteria, he had expected her to go mad, to bash around the room like a caged bird, but she didn't even shed a tear.

He had wept, he had growled at doctors and undertakers; he had silenced every comforter with a single look from cold, green eyes, but Mary had not once shown grief. It wasn't until this grey morning, standing side by side over coffins that were heart-wrenchingly small beside the large grave of their father's that he understood. Mary had known too much grief; it had become air to her. She had already cried too much before.

Clarke closed the window to keep the smoke out of the house. To keep disease from spreading, the doctor had ordered Charlotte's mattress, her clothes, Emanuel's crib, everything be burned. At first, Clarke was only too happy to be rid of such painful reminders of his loss, but as he watched the children's possession slowly be consumed by the flame, he felt like he was being cheated, like they were being stolen from him again.

When he turned from the window, he saw Mary standing in the doorway of the parlour, staring at him plainly. He couldn't breathe when she looked at him like that.

"I suppose this is God's punishment for my crimes," she said caustically, approaching him with crossed arms.

"No," he replied evenly, his voice low and sincere. "It's my punishment too."

The night was far too still and Clarke couldn't sleep. He had stopped crying for the children long ago and the ache had dulled, but the emptiness seemed endless. He wondered if it would ever be filled. He had loved being a father, he had loved the sight them at meals, loved teaching Charlotte about the earth and sky, he even loved cooing at Emanuel when he was fussy.

As a botanist, he knew what it meant to nurture something and watch it grow and produce. He took comfort responsibility, in caring for things, and the children needed that from him as desperately as he needed to give it. Now they were gone and the house seemed so desolate.

For some strange reason, Clarke wasn't startled when his bedroom door opened and he turned to see Mary standing in the threshold. She looked at him mutely, her eyes saying what her lips could not. This was the Mary that had come to his door in the middle of the night, with no other option. He silently held up the comforter and made room for her beside him.

She moved easily, not swiftly nor hesitantly, to climb into bed. She seemed different from the wild animal that held his gaze so fixedly so long ago. She seemed tame, subdued. The fire was gone, extinguished along with everything else, and Clarke could not help but mourn it.

Mary nestled herself into his most willing arms and Clarke kissed her head with a sigh, understanding all too well why she was there. She needed companionship, she needed the warmth of another human being beside her, it didn't matter who, though he couldn't resist the fleeting notion that she trusted in his sympathy. He had learned long ago not to ask Mary for more than she could give, but to always give her everything she asked of him. It comforted him to comfort her, and, while it didn't bring the children back or mend the wounds upon his heart, feeling within his arms satiated the ache they always felt for her.

Clarke started a little when he felt the scalding moisture of her first tear upon his breast and settled into the mattress again when it was instantly succeeded by her second. When her shoulders began to shake, he held her closer, stronger. When her sobs echoed from her throat, he soothed and hushed her. He didn't care that her arms were only clinging to him because he was there, that he was little more than a mast to be tethered to in a storm. He welcomed the dull ached her embrace tendered him and continued to hold her back with all his might.

They fell into a new routine after that night. In the mornings, Clarke would rise with the dawn and she would sleep until the room was too bright for her to keep her eyes shut. They didn't eat breakfast, but occasionally, Mary would ask Clarke to read something from Scripture while she practiced her letters. While she and Marleen had their lessons, Clarke would tend to the daffodils, the only thing left to remind him of Charlotte.

The one thing that changed was that Mary called him Ralph. She had never before called him by his Christian-name, not even when they made love in Botany Bay, but now she seemed to always address him by it. "Ralph, dinner is ready." "Ralph, would you like some tea?" "Ralph, would you help me please?"

At night, Mary would climb in bed beside him. He always kept carefully to his side, letting her take initiative. Some nights would pass without the slightest movement from either of them, others she would inch herself up so that she was lying against him. On some occasions, he would wake to find her hand upon his but, on the nights when the pain was too much for her to bear alone, she would snake her way into his embrace and remain there until morning.

Mary Clarke: his wife.

She became dearer to him everyday. She was imbedded in his routine: he woke beside her and fell asleep to the sound of her breathing. She was his obsession, unlike any liquor or opiate man had been ensnared by. She was his great love, his great hate. She provoked and soothed him, drew him like a moth to a flame.  
Her joy became his joy, so he sought to make her happy in whatever small way he could find. Her pain became his pain, so he protected her with all his might.

Still, the ocean remained, separating them, dividing them. William Bryant was caught up within its depths, and now the children had joined him. Ralph knew there would be no swimming this sea and no ship would ever ferry him across to her, so he decided to surrender to it.

"Forgive me," he whispered to her one night as her eyes stared at him in the darkness of their bedroom. "Forgive me, Mary. Forgive me, please."  
Mary said nothing, but reached across the bed to take his hand in hers.

The first time they made love, was a consummation; Ralph had waited for that moment for four years. It was sweet and tentative. The second time was desire; it was passionate and desperate. The last time stemmed from elation, from the belief that she loved him and wouldn't leave him, but ended with the bitterness of betrayal.

Tonight, however, tonight was forgiveness. Each kiss was bittersweet from the tears, the pain, the lies, the anger, and the guilt that had encompassed them for so long. Tonight was purgatory for every crime they had committed against one another. Tonight, Mary's every kiss seared his skin, making him forever hers while his own lips fervently claimed her as his own.

In the past, Ralph had made love to the idea of Mary, of what she was to him, but in that they weren't Adam and Eve, twilight or morning; they were flesh and blood. They wept, they ached, they bled, and they forgave each other in spite of it all.

Tonight, they were real.


	8. Samuel

_Author's note: The title of the last chapter "Leave the Living", comes from a line in the mini-series "The Thorn Birds" in which  
a bereaved mother says, "Your God gathers in the good ones and leaves the living to those of us who failed."_

_-S. Cartwright.  
p.s. I highly recommend "The Thorn Birds". It will change your life._

_Disclaimer: All copywrights belong to their respective holders._

_Chapter Eight:  
Samuel_

_Samuel, lend me your ear,  
This is the voice of your father here.  
If I speak the words and no one has the vision  
Can I count on you, my sweet child, to listen?  
The whole world's in love with you, baby.  
I am in love with you, child.  
You are so meek and mild;  
You are a holy child.  
Samuel, lend me your ear.  
-Jason Upton "Samuel"_

The sun seemed brighter today than it ever had before. Clarke's heart felt lighter than it ever had before.  
It had been five years since Charlotte died, but her daffodils still bloomed with the spring. The year after the children died, Clarke had planted beds of daffodils over the graves and they were diligently tended by he and Marleen. Mary could never bring herself to touch them, but she once told him that she loved the sight of them on a rainy day, that they seemed liked sunshine. Clarke never let anyone touch the flowers Charlotte had planted but him; they were his charge, he felt.

Charlotte and Emanuel's portraits (the ones he had painted of them) hung in the parlour now. It was a year before Clarke let Mary see them and another year before Mary could bring herself to look at them. He put them in a drawer, wrapped up to be carefully preserved, and took care to never mention them again. He couldn't lose Mary for anything. Then, one sunny day, Clarke came in from the garden and saw the portraits over the mantle. That's when he knew Mary had stopped crying.

The sound of laughter in the garden made him hearken back to a similar day four years ago.

Clarke had found Mary fussing with her dress, something she was wont to do; she didn't realise how beautiful she was.

"Ralph, will you help me please?" she had asked.

He hesitated, his mind flying back to that terrible day on board the Charlotte, the day he lost her for the first time.

When she repeated herself, he sucked in his breath and came up behind her, wrapping his arms about her waist to help secure her stays. She brought his hand to the swell of her stomach and held it there gently. He could feel the child kicking; he almost swore he could hear the heartbeat in that moment.  
Neither of them said a word, but Ralph held her closely, thanking God with everything inside of him for this blessing.

Samuel: his son, his firstborn. He could still remember how he felt the first moment he took the screaming babe into his arms. When the children died, he thought he couldn't bear to hold another: that he couldn't bear to love and lose them. But when his son opened watery blue eyes to look up at him, Clarke knew he wouldn't exchange this utopia for anything, even if it all ended the same as it had the first time.

"He's beautiful, Mary," he had murmured, looking at his weary wife with tear-filled eyes. "He looks just like you."

The baby grew everyday and so did Clarke's love for him. This boy would never be a soldier, this boy was a born parson, a true one who loved God and who understood Him better than Clarke had ever hoped to in his youth. A tenderer child had not been born; Clarke sometimes felt that he learned from his son, rather than the opposite.

Watching him now, tend his patch of lilies on the other side of the garden, Clarke could see the man he would become; a strong man, a good man. And he wouldn't have to try or fight for it as his father had, he would just be.

He named the boy Samuel because of the Biblical prophet who heard God call him in the night. His mother had prayed for him with all of her heart and given him back to God as soon as he was old enough. Clarke had prayed for a life of purity and failed. He prayed for forgiveness and received it in the form of this child, now he gave thanks.

Clarke felt a touch upon his shoulder and looked up to see Mary standing over him, baby Rose within her arms. He stood and took the precious burden from her, feeling his heart swell at the sound of his daughter's sleepy sighs. He looked from child to mother, his smile increasing. Mary smiled back.

It was then that Clarke was certain: God had forgiven them, their punishment was over: He was calling them back to Him. Judgment had been tempered with abounding mercy.

"Papa!" called Samuel, running up to them. "Papa, can I teach Rose how to garden?"

Clarke caught the glint in Mary's eye before he turned to face the hopeful and eager eyes of his son.

So like Mary's, he thought for the thousandth time.

"Very well," he sighed, following after the boy with his babe in his arms.

He saw them carefully situated in the grass and reminded Samuel that his sister was in his charge, that he must be careful of her. Even as he spoke, he knew he needn't worry. Samuel knew Rose better than her parents did. The day the girl was born, Clarke carefully placed the infant in his son's arms and heard the boy proudly say, "Mine".

Mine, Clarke thought, looking at his children together.

Mary was well nigh laughing as he returned to the veranda. He hadn't seen her smile so since that day at the Equator. There had been so many days when he thought she would never again smile like that, that her heart had been through to much. In many ways, he felt much the same, but there she stood, flushed as the seventeen year old girl that had enchanted him all those years ago.

"Three months old and she's learning botany," she teased him, her eyes dancing.

When she smiled like that, Clarke felt like a young boy again. He still remembered those agonising years of watching her with Bryant outside their cabin, though the memory was no longer bitter. She would shriek giddily and Bryant would chase after her and catch her up in his arms. In those days, he had wished it were in his temperament to be boisterous, to act upon impulse. He was, by nature, very cautious and reserved with his feelings, even now. In truth, he couldn't bear to have  
Mary pull away from him if he tried to embrace her so.

Yet the smile remained and his heart soared to realise that her eyes rested solely upon him. Before he could stop himself, he leapt onto the veranda and pulled her to him, kissing her soundly, deeply. When her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers buried themselves in his hair, he could not suppress the sigh that escaped him.

They broke away tentatively and Clarke opened his mouth to speak, but, once again, her bewitching eyes stopped his words within his throat. She looked at him tenderly, warmly, as though the past had never happened, as though they had never been apart. –He had yearned for this moment!

Mary turned within his arms to watch the children, her eyes soft with maternal pride. Clarke thought he would never see them shine like that again, certainly not for his children. But Samuel and Rose were their children; his and Mary's. –How could they ever have deserved such mercy?

He sighed when he felt her body relax against his, her limbs seemingly content within his grateful embrace. When he was young, he had assumed that passion would fade from his veins, but Mary always seemed to keep the fire burning. She was the only one who could ever ignite it in the beginning, the only one he had ever truly desired, the only one he ever would desire. His wife: his love.

"I love you, Mary Clarke," he said softly, tremulously against her hair. It was the first time he had ever been brave enough to say those words out loud, the first time he thought there was even a chance that she wouldn't reject him.

"I know," she replied serenely, taking his left hand in hers.

When she didn't speak further, he pressed his brow to her temple, breathing in her scent with equal measures of sorrow and forbearance. He knew that a part of her had been buried on the beach with Bryant and the children; he knew better than to ask for what little she had left inside. He didn't say "I love you" to hear it back, after all. He said it so that she would know he did.

Mary had given him two children and, together, they had built a strong life, a stable one. He already knew that they would grow old together, that she would be beside him when he walked with a cane and had lost his quick stride. It was enough that she let him love her. He was content to stand beside her, even if he couldn't have her heart. It was enough.

"I love you," Mary breathed softly, her eyes glazing with tears.

Ralph reached out and cupped her face in his hands, drying her eyes with his thumbs. He wanted to say something, but there were no words that could speak for his heart, so he smiled warmly, letting his eyes communicate what his mouth could not. It was enough.


End file.
